Sometimes, I forget that miracles exist. I actually give up on them. Life seems to get too hard, too harsh, too fast, and I just crumble, believing, momentarily, that it won't get any better. Then a little thing happens, taking me by complete surprise, changing my life, momentarily or forever: a miracle. And I again believe that life is good, no, more than good, great, that everything will be fine, that any problems can be worked out. Thank God for miracles!
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Squeegee Boy
The squeegee boy comes closer, dirty wet rag in hand, aimless distant light-brown eyes and a smile that proclaims innocence, heartbreak and desperation. He looks at me but I know his gaze is turned inward, focused solely on the paradise inhaled with the cement fumes. His coffee-and-milk skin is lusterless and scaly, hard to believe its former richness; his black hair, cropped closed to his head, is dirty, full of little white specks, perhaps his scalp peeling off bit by bit; his clothes are worn and streaked with dirty water. Though young, he is a veteran of these streets. He has worked this corner for many months, with a group of his street friends. They are proud of their organization, their cleanliness (they take turns sweeping the sidewalk on their corner! they are careful not to spill water from the buckets they use for their work!). They pool their profits each day to reach paradise together.
The squeegee boy is not aggressive. He doesn't throw his rag on the windshield, he doesn't hang onto the car, he doesn't scream loudly and menace with his eyes, to intimidate the driver. His inhaled paradise keeps him meek and mild. When I shake my head softly, rejecting his service, his gaze turns outward and focuses on me, for a second, then his eyes empty out again and he is far, far away, an angelic smile all that's left, a testament to his fantasy life. He moves away from the car and I drive on.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
The squeegee boy is not aggressive. He doesn't throw his rag on the windshield, he doesn't hang onto the car, he doesn't scream loudly and menace with his eyes, to intimidate the driver. His inhaled paradise keeps him meek and mild. When I shake my head softly, rejecting his service, his gaze turns outward and focuses on me, for a second, then his eyes empty out again and he is far, far away, an angelic smile all that's left, a testament to his fantasy life. He moves away from the car and I drive on.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Dancing
Modern dance is as much theater as dance when it tells a story. And today, sitting at my friend's rehearsal, I lost myself in the story, understanding how amazing it is that you can tell a tale in so many different ways: a photograph, a painting, a dance and of course, the written word.
There was also a moment while I sat there silently watching, trying to take in as much details as I could, since I knew she would ask me what I thought and expected a fair critique, where I decided that in a future life I want to return as a dancer. It was incredible to watch a dancer's body up close, the fluid, graceful movements, the taut muscles working together to create the feeling that the dancer was gliding weightlessly through the room.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
There was also a moment while I sat there silently watching, trying to take in as much details as I could, since I knew she would ask me what I thought and expected a fair critique, where I decided that in a future life I want to return as a dancer. It was incredible to watch a dancer's body up close, the fluid, graceful movements, the taut muscles working together to create the feeling that the dancer was gliding weightlessly through the room.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
10p.m., 24-Hour Carwash
From a moment last night:
The man sat on a cement block, near his sculpture. He waited quietly, watching the people waiting for the attendants to finish with their cars. He wasn’t pushy or aggressive, and he kept his gaze mostly on the wet, slick floor. He wasn’t a salesman and he knew this, but this morning, desperate for money, his wife’s own desperate eyes fixed on him, the baby crying in the other room, he had taken his latest piece, three women’s faces, ghostly in their soft lines, carved in precious wood, a heavy piece he had taken much care with, and walked out the door, promising himself he would sell it. He didn’t say it to his wife, but he had been sure that this piece was the first piece he would use in an exhibition, his first, something he dreamed of since learning to carve wood into beautiful images. But then the baby had gotten sick.
He took a public car into the city, carrying the large piece on his lap, avoiding the annoyed stares of the other passengers, four squished on the back seat, and had been walking the streets
since then, continuously lowering his price. He was sweaty and hungry, tired and dirty, and somehow he had ended up in this carwash, on his way to the public car back home. Earlier that day, he had been optimistic and even aggressive, trying to make loud deals with the people he offered his piece to, so against his nature. Now, his silence and reserve had returned, coupled with disappointment. His shoulders were hunched in, revealing both his exhaustion and loss of faith.
He dared to glance up and offer a small, tentative smile to someone who looked his way, picking up the piece to show the man his offering. The prospective client, overweight and a little messy, driving a very large, black SUV, looked away, then shook his head. The same old story. The look in the man’s eyes was apologetic, but apologies could not help in any way. The other people there completely avoided his eyes, even as they spent slightly less what he was asking to wash their own cars. And he was asking so much less than the hours to make the piece had been worth, so much less than even the wood was worth. He just needed enough for his baby’s medicine.
He approached a young couple, bringing his piece closer to the young woman. Women, he knew, were the ones who usually bought these things. She inspected it quickly with her eyes, offering him a soft smile as she did so, looked at her husband, then away. The young man looked it over more slowly, muttered, “It’s a good piece.” But did not offer to buy it. Met with the other man’s impassive stare, the young man said, “If we only had the money…”
The three stood in silence some more, then the young man asked, out of politeness perhaps,
“Are you from here?”
“Yes,” the other man answered, “Haina.”
“That’s far,” the young man said. “It’s a good piece,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. We have to go.”
The young couple got into their car and drove away. The man picked up his piece and kept walking downhill, towards the public cars, in the dark.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
The man sat on a cement block, near his sculpture. He waited quietly, watching the people waiting for the attendants to finish with their cars. He wasn’t pushy or aggressive, and he kept his gaze mostly on the wet, slick floor. He wasn’t a salesman and he knew this, but this morning, desperate for money, his wife’s own desperate eyes fixed on him, the baby crying in the other room, he had taken his latest piece, three women’s faces, ghostly in their soft lines, carved in precious wood, a heavy piece he had taken much care with, and walked out the door, promising himself he would sell it. He didn’t say it to his wife, but he had been sure that this piece was the first piece he would use in an exhibition, his first, something he dreamed of since learning to carve wood into beautiful images. But then the baby had gotten sick.
He took a public car into the city, carrying the large piece on his lap, avoiding the annoyed stares of the other passengers, four squished on the back seat, and had been walking the streets
since then, continuously lowering his price. He was sweaty and hungry, tired and dirty, and somehow he had ended up in this carwash, on his way to the public car back home. Earlier that day, he had been optimistic and even aggressive, trying to make loud deals with the people he offered his piece to, so against his nature. Now, his silence and reserve had returned, coupled with disappointment. His shoulders were hunched in, revealing both his exhaustion and loss of faith.
He dared to glance up and offer a small, tentative smile to someone who looked his way, picking up the piece to show the man his offering. The prospective client, overweight and a little messy, driving a very large, black SUV, looked away, then shook his head. The same old story. The look in the man’s eyes was apologetic, but apologies could not help in any way. The other people there completely avoided his eyes, even as they spent slightly less what he was asking to wash their own cars. And he was asking so much less than the hours to make the piece had been worth, so much less than even the wood was worth. He just needed enough for his baby’s medicine.
He approached a young couple, bringing his piece closer to the young woman. Women, he knew, were the ones who usually bought these things. She inspected it quickly with her eyes, offering him a soft smile as she did so, looked at her husband, then away. The young man looked it over more slowly, muttered, “It’s a good piece.” But did not offer to buy it. Met with the other man’s impassive stare, the young man said, “If we only had the money…”
The three stood in silence some more, then the young man asked, out of politeness perhaps,
“Are you from here?”
“Yes,” the other man answered, “Haina.”
“That’s far,” the young man said. “It’s a good piece,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. We have to go.”
The young couple got into their car and drove away. The man picked up his piece and kept walking downhill, towards the public cars, in the dark.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Red Light
Another sketch, inspired by a moment. I'm actually writing a short story based on this little snapshot:
The light turns red, the cars slow down and stop, and Luis pulls himself from the curve and shuffles closer to the waiting cars, expertly maneuvering himself with his crutches. He has worked this corner for five years. He has been missing a leg even longer. Not spotting any of his “regulars”, Luis takes a look around. His interest is caught by a Hummer, bright yellow and obnoxious, shiny and aggressive, and he shuffles faster toward it.
Forgotten is his so-called job, entertaining the waiting drivers with some funny lines in exchange for a few pesos here and there. Luis can see his distorted reflection in the shiny exterior of the Hummer. He has never had a chance to talk to someone driving a Hummer and he wants to take advantage of the open window in the cool Fall afternoon. As he gets closer, there is a moment of peaceful silence, strange in the busy intersection, and Luis can hear the driver on his cell phone. He is surprised to learn the man’s name. “Yes, yes!” The man is practically shouting. “This is Luis calling! What?!!! Tell him I want no excuses this time!” The man’s voice is authoritative and condescending. After a pause, he continues, “I don’t care who he’s meeting with. He needs to solve my problem now!”
Luis waits a moment, still only able to glimpse the back of the man’s head, and sees him shake his head disgusted, throw the cell phone, and turn around. Their eyes meet and Luis, the entertainer, the man in the crutches, is rendered speechless by what he sees. There is a moment of confusion and he no longer knows what reality is. Is he standing outside or is he sitting in the Hummer?
The man in the Hummer looks him up and down dismissively; his thick, slightly flat
nose, a carbon copy of Luis’s own nose, twists as if identifying some distasteful smell. Luis offers him his smile, the one that gets most people talking to him, but the man in the Hummer, the man wearing the obviously expensive suit, mumbles, “Get a job!” assuming Luis is begging, and turns his gaze forward, creating that invisible wall Luis is used to.
And there they remain, frozen, the seconds ticking by: One Luis standing on the street, resting on his crutches, wearing ragged and slightly dirty clothes, taking advantage of the only profession available to a crippled uneducated man and the other Luis, well-dressed and wealthy, feeling like his poor version is an eyesore in his otherwise privileged life. The light changes, the Hummer moves forward without another glance from its driver, and Luis returns to the curve, to wait for the next change of light.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
The light turns red, the cars slow down and stop, and Luis pulls himself from the curve and shuffles closer to the waiting cars, expertly maneuvering himself with his crutches. He has worked this corner for five years. He has been missing a leg even longer. Not spotting any of his “regulars”, Luis takes a look around. His interest is caught by a Hummer, bright yellow and obnoxious, shiny and aggressive, and he shuffles faster toward it.
Forgotten is his so-called job, entertaining the waiting drivers with some funny lines in exchange for a few pesos here and there. Luis can see his distorted reflection in the shiny exterior of the Hummer. He has never had a chance to talk to someone driving a Hummer and he wants to take advantage of the open window in the cool Fall afternoon. As he gets closer, there is a moment of peaceful silence, strange in the busy intersection, and Luis can hear the driver on his cell phone. He is surprised to learn the man’s name. “Yes, yes!” The man is practically shouting. “This is Luis calling! What?!!! Tell him I want no excuses this time!” The man’s voice is authoritative and condescending. After a pause, he continues, “I don’t care who he’s meeting with. He needs to solve my problem now!”
Luis waits a moment, still only able to glimpse the back of the man’s head, and sees him shake his head disgusted, throw the cell phone, and turn around. Their eyes meet and Luis, the entertainer, the man in the crutches, is rendered speechless by what he sees. There is a moment of confusion and he no longer knows what reality is. Is he standing outside or is he sitting in the Hummer?
The man in the Hummer looks him up and down dismissively; his thick, slightly flat
nose, a carbon copy of Luis’s own nose, twists as if identifying some distasteful smell. Luis offers him his smile, the one that gets most people talking to him, but the man in the Hummer, the man wearing the obviously expensive suit, mumbles, “Get a job!” assuming Luis is begging, and turns his gaze forward, creating that invisible wall Luis is used to.
And there they remain, frozen, the seconds ticking by: One Luis standing on the street, resting on his crutches, wearing ragged and slightly dirty clothes, taking advantage of the only profession available to a crippled uneducated man and the other Luis, well-dressed and wealthy, feeling like his poor version is an eyesore in his otherwise privileged life. The light changes, the Hummer moves forward without another glance from its driver, and Luis returns to the curve, to wait for the next change of light.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Little Miracles
This is a work in progress (inspired by something you can see everyday in my island country)...
Freddy sat on his box and picked at a scab on his skinny knee. Nearby, Moreno, his companion, playmate and friend, lay sleeping on the hard, cement floor. They were both dusty from their long walk here. Moreno had declared he was too tired to keep doing anything else once they arrived, had located a shady spot on the floor, and had quickly fallen asleep, his mouth open, literally catching flies. Freddy had been left on his own to negotiate with the three kids that now sat by the front entrance of the ice cream parlor, begging money and food. To passer-bys, they were all alike, dusty and dirty, snotty noses, scabby knees, distended bellies from hunger and parasites, the forgotten, the embarrassment of the country. The passer-bys either gave them money or left over ice creams, or shooed them away, holding tightly to their belongings.
Freddy had agreed to stay to the less used side entrance, for his services. At first, he begun to protest, but the kids, the oldest of which was 9 years old, suddenly turned dangerous, their eyes threatening. Freddy, almost 13, realized he could not defend himself against the three, consented to their terms and now sat, waiting for a customer to use the side door.
He hated to beg; it was something he had watched his mother do before she died and vowed never to do it himself. Instead, he became a limpiabotas, a shoeshine boy. Moreno accompanied him in his travels around the city, but did not desire to clean anyone’s shoes and was not adverse to begging when hunger tightened its fist around his stomach. But he shared all he got with Freddy, thus saving Freddy’s dignity and feeding him at the same time.
Freddy caressed the old scarred box, passed on from Pablo, an older friend who had moved on to “better” businesses. Though, from his various times arriving late at night bleeding and beaten up, Freddy wondered just how better those businesses were. He said as much to Pablo, who responded that he was never hungry, could buy himself clothes and shoes, and had a weapon to defend himself. The box itself was painted a light shade of peach, a color Freddy himself had mixed from some left over paints he had found. He had also painted crude figures of Moreno and himself in their “travels” through the city, pictures he liked to stare at when sitting all alone, not hungry or worried about life, when he was just able to dream.
He didn’t allow himself the luxury of dreams too often, though, and subscribed to the belief that to survive you had to stay truly grounded in reality, a belief that his father repeated often at night, the only time the two saw each other. His father left before Freddy woke up, a day laborer who walked the streets asking for work, tending a yard, helping with an impromptu move or completing a crew in a make-shift construction yard. Roberto, Freddy’s father, was a quiet man, beaten-down by life, but surviving. His dark skin was made even darker by the punishing sun and the wind and the rain, and in some places it seemed brittle. He was illiterate, unable to write even his own name. He had come to the city from his campo as a young man, looking for a better life. At first, that’s just what this city had promised and soon he had himself a wife and baby, only to have life play a cruel joke on him, making his wife sickly, losing his job, and eventually losing his wife, left with a young son to take care of. He pushed Freddy to go to school, though he was unable to buy him most of the supplies. “Something’s bound to get in your head,” he would say to Freddy. “And one of these days, we’ll get all that stuff and you’ll show all those kids.”
For his part, Freddy didn’t like school. He liked the learning, especially when he figured new things out. But he hated a lot of the kids, who either snubbed him or outright ridiculed him for his lack of materials or his second-hand, tape-repaired sandals. He hated them because in truth they were no better than him and he knew it. He knew where they lived, in the shacks right next to him. He knew who their parents where and how they got their money. But some were luckier and had more, and they made sure everyone knew it.
He spied a man with black leather shoes walking out of the ice cream store through the side door. The man held a bag with a large container of ice cream and keys to a car on the other hand. Freddy approached him tentatively, not getting close enough to be grabbed or touched. He had received pushes and even punches from “prospective” customers who had assumed he was there to rob them. “Sir, I can clean those shoes right away, sir. I can do a good job.”
The man turned to Freddy with a look of surprise, as if he had not seen the boy standing there. Then he looked down at his shoes and back at Freddy. “What? No! No! These are fine!” He dug into his pocket with the hand the held the keys, looking for change and then offered 5 pesos to Freddy. “Here, here you go.”
Freddy shook his head. “I don’t want it,” he said. “I can clean your shoes.”
The man looked even more startled by this and instead, walked towards his car quickly, glancing once at Moreno sleeping on the concrete and then back at Freddy. He mumbled something, shook his head, and got into his car. Freddy stared at him as he left, then sat by the entrance again. Had Moreno been awake, he would have taken the man’s money, but Freddy just couldn’t do it. Eventually, he knew, someone was bound to come out and let him clean the shoes. It was a dusty city after all.
And just like he expected, eventually, a young woman in black leather boots and a suit came out, eating an ice cream cone. Freddy’s stomach turned at the delicious-looking cone, but instead, he offered his services, making sure his eyes didn’t stare at the ice cream. He didn’t really think she would accept his offer, but the young woman said yes. Sat on a bench and ate her ice-cream, quickly so it would not melt, as Freddy cleaned and shined her boots. She tried to make conversation, asking Freddy questions that he answered in short sentences. “Do you go to school?” she asked.
“Yes, in the mornings,” he answered.
She glanced at her watch, taking in the time. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much,” Freddy answered.
“What’s your favorite subject?” she continued.
“Ummm….math, I think,” Freddy said. He never asked anything back. His reserve, pride, and fear of offending prevented him from opening up. Had this been Moreno, Freddy knew, the woman would have already shared her whole story. He finished quickly and looked up at her with a smile. “There, I did a good job, no?”
She admired her shoes and smiled. “Yes, yes you did. How much is it?”
“Twenty pesos,” Freddy said. She dug in her purse and gave it to him. Freddy put the money in his pocket, happy that he had only eighty pesos to go. He had given himself a quota of at least one hundred pesos a day and even though sometimes he could not actually reach it, it was always his goal.
The woman walked to a dusty blue hatchback and got in. She started the car but did not pull out. Freddy watched with interest as she dug in her back seat frantically. Moreno languidly stretched out as he awoke and then walked over to Freddy. He followed Freddy’s eyes to the woman but quickly lost interest in her. “C’mon,” Moreno said. “We have to get ourselves some food!” The two boys began walking away but were detained by the young woman’s voice.
“Excuse me! Amiguito! Wait!” The woman called, making both boys turn around. She reached them, holding something in her hand, which she thrust into Freddy’s hands. “Here,” she said, “I couldn’t help noticing.” Freddy stared at her questioningly. “Oh,” she continued, “that you like to paint and draw. I wasn’t using these anymore, so I thought you’d like them.”
Freddy looked down at the watercolors in his hands. He smiled brightly at her. “Yeah, I do. Thank you!”
The woman nodded and smiled. “Good luck,” she said, and walked back to her car.
Moreno, now more interested, examined the colors, approvingly. Both boys were so caught up in the new colors that the man had to tap them to get their attention. “Here,” the man said, handing them each an ice cream bar. “Enjoy.” He offered a small smile but did not wait for the thank you Freddy called out. Instead, he walked back into the ice cream parlor.
Both boys happily went to eating their ice creams. Freddy, for his part, felt more energized. Only eighty pesos to go and it was just the beginning of the work-day. He had new colors and a creamy, melting ice-cream. Some days were like that, full of little miracles.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
Freddy sat on his box and picked at a scab on his skinny knee. Nearby, Moreno, his companion, playmate and friend, lay sleeping on the hard, cement floor. They were both dusty from their long walk here. Moreno had declared he was too tired to keep doing anything else once they arrived, had located a shady spot on the floor, and had quickly fallen asleep, his mouth open, literally catching flies. Freddy had been left on his own to negotiate with the three kids that now sat by the front entrance of the ice cream parlor, begging money and food. To passer-bys, they were all alike, dusty and dirty, snotty noses, scabby knees, distended bellies from hunger and parasites, the forgotten, the embarrassment of the country. The passer-bys either gave them money or left over ice creams, or shooed them away, holding tightly to their belongings.
Freddy had agreed to stay to the less used side entrance, for his services. At first, he begun to protest, but the kids, the oldest of which was 9 years old, suddenly turned dangerous, their eyes threatening. Freddy, almost 13, realized he could not defend himself against the three, consented to their terms and now sat, waiting for a customer to use the side door.
He hated to beg; it was something he had watched his mother do before she died and vowed never to do it himself. Instead, he became a limpiabotas, a shoeshine boy. Moreno accompanied him in his travels around the city, but did not desire to clean anyone’s shoes and was not adverse to begging when hunger tightened its fist around his stomach. But he shared all he got with Freddy, thus saving Freddy’s dignity and feeding him at the same time.
Freddy caressed the old scarred box, passed on from Pablo, an older friend who had moved on to “better” businesses. Though, from his various times arriving late at night bleeding and beaten up, Freddy wondered just how better those businesses were. He said as much to Pablo, who responded that he was never hungry, could buy himself clothes and shoes, and had a weapon to defend himself. The box itself was painted a light shade of peach, a color Freddy himself had mixed from some left over paints he had found. He had also painted crude figures of Moreno and himself in their “travels” through the city, pictures he liked to stare at when sitting all alone, not hungry or worried about life, when he was just able to dream.
He didn’t allow himself the luxury of dreams too often, though, and subscribed to the belief that to survive you had to stay truly grounded in reality, a belief that his father repeated often at night, the only time the two saw each other. His father left before Freddy woke up, a day laborer who walked the streets asking for work, tending a yard, helping with an impromptu move or completing a crew in a make-shift construction yard. Roberto, Freddy’s father, was a quiet man, beaten-down by life, but surviving. His dark skin was made even darker by the punishing sun and the wind and the rain, and in some places it seemed brittle. He was illiterate, unable to write even his own name. He had come to the city from his campo as a young man, looking for a better life. At first, that’s just what this city had promised and soon he had himself a wife and baby, only to have life play a cruel joke on him, making his wife sickly, losing his job, and eventually losing his wife, left with a young son to take care of. He pushed Freddy to go to school, though he was unable to buy him most of the supplies. “Something’s bound to get in your head,” he would say to Freddy. “And one of these days, we’ll get all that stuff and you’ll show all those kids.”
For his part, Freddy didn’t like school. He liked the learning, especially when he figured new things out. But he hated a lot of the kids, who either snubbed him or outright ridiculed him for his lack of materials or his second-hand, tape-repaired sandals. He hated them because in truth they were no better than him and he knew it. He knew where they lived, in the shacks right next to him. He knew who their parents where and how they got their money. But some were luckier and had more, and they made sure everyone knew it.
He spied a man with black leather shoes walking out of the ice cream store through the side door. The man held a bag with a large container of ice cream and keys to a car on the other hand. Freddy approached him tentatively, not getting close enough to be grabbed or touched. He had received pushes and even punches from “prospective” customers who had assumed he was there to rob them. “Sir, I can clean those shoes right away, sir. I can do a good job.”
The man turned to Freddy with a look of surprise, as if he had not seen the boy standing there. Then he looked down at his shoes and back at Freddy. “What? No! No! These are fine!” He dug into his pocket with the hand the held the keys, looking for change and then offered 5 pesos to Freddy. “Here, here you go.”
Freddy shook his head. “I don’t want it,” he said. “I can clean your shoes.”
The man looked even more startled by this and instead, walked towards his car quickly, glancing once at Moreno sleeping on the concrete and then back at Freddy. He mumbled something, shook his head, and got into his car. Freddy stared at him as he left, then sat by the entrance again. Had Moreno been awake, he would have taken the man’s money, but Freddy just couldn’t do it. Eventually, he knew, someone was bound to come out and let him clean the shoes. It was a dusty city after all.
And just like he expected, eventually, a young woman in black leather boots and a suit came out, eating an ice cream cone. Freddy’s stomach turned at the delicious-looking cone, but instead, he offered his services, making sure his eyes didn’t stare at the ice cream. He didn’t really think she would accept his offer, but the young woman said yes. Sat on a bench and ate her ice-cream, quickly so it would not melt, as Freddy cleaned and shined her boots. She tried to make conversation, asking Freddy questions that he answered in short sentences. “Do you go to school?” she asked.
“Yes, in the mornings,” he answered.
She glanced at her watch, taking in the time. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much,” Freddy answered.
“What’s your favorite subject?” she continued.
“Ummm….math, I think,” Freddy said. He never asked anything back. His reserve, pride, and fear of offending prevented him from opening up. Had this been Moreno, Freddy knew, the woman would have already shared her whole story. He finished quickly and looked up at her with a smile. “There, I did a good job, no?”
She admired her shoes and smiled. “Yes, yes you did. How much is it?”
“Twenty pesos,” Freddy said. She dug in her purse and gave it to him. Freddy put the money in his pocket, happy that he had only eighty pesos to go. He had given himself a quota of at least one hundred pesos a day and even though sometimes he could not actually reach it, it was always his goal.
The woman walked to a dusty blue hatchback and got in. She started the car but did not pull out. Freddy watched with interest as she dug in her back seat frantically. Moreno languidly stretched out as he awoke and then walked over to Freddy. He followed Freddy’s eyes to the woman but quickly lost interest in her. “C’mon,” Moreno said. “We have to get ourselves some food!” The two boys began walking away but were detained by the young woman’s voice.
“Excuse me! Amiguito! Wait!” The woman called, making both boys turn around. She reached them, holding something in her hand, which she thrust into Freddy’s hands. “Here,” she said, “I couldn’t help noticing.” Freddy stared at her questioningly. “Oh,” she continued, “that you like to paint and draw. I wasn’t using these anymore, so I thought you’d like them.”
Freddy looked down at the watercolors in his hands. He smiled brightly at her. “Yeah, I do. Thank you!”
The woman nodded and smiled. “Good luck,” she said, and walked back to her car.
Moreno, now more interested, examined the colors, approvingly. Both boys were so caught up in the new colors that the man had to tap them to get their attention. “Here,” the man said, handing them each an ice cream bar. “Enjoy.” He offered a small smile but did not wait for the thank you Freddy called out. Instead, he walked back into the ice cream parlor.
Both boys happily went to eating their ice creams. Freddy, for his part, felt more energized. Only eighty pesos to go and it was just the beginning of the work-day. He had new colors and a creamy, melting ice-cream. Some days were like that, full of little miracles.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
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